


Still Breathing

by athenaeums



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenaeums/pseuds/athenaeums
Summary: Fix-it from 8x04 onwards.---"He lies in the boat and rocks out to sea, clutching at his injured side and thinking of a life he can never have where the sea crashes into the shore, where his wife rules and his children learn to sail. He dreams of Tarth as his eyes close and tiredness takes over. Before he drifts off, he wonders if he’ll die before he leaves the Blackwater."





	Still Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> I had to at least try and make that ending make sense.

“They’re going to kill her,” he whispers across the bed. He doesn’t know if she can hear him, but he needs to expel the thought from his mind. It’s been pounding and repeating and beating since he saw her with the raven from Kings Landing. Since he learned of the failed parley.

The answer is a soft hand grasping his own where it lies between them. The “Probably,” soon follows.

_I need to go back. I need to go back. I need to go back._

His mind is betraying his wants, but his body is rooted. He can’t move, even if he did want to. Her thumb brushes the back of his hand slowly and he wonders if she knows that she is his anchor. He thinks he might never leave this bed.

“I really thought she would surrender,” his voice cracks a little as he dares to speak this time, but before he’s even finished thinking it he knows it’s a lie. Cersei would never surrender. She’s too far gone. He thinks of the Sept collapsing and the wildfire spreading, and he squeezes his eyes shut to make it stop. She’s been too far gone for a while and he wilfully ignored it.

“You don’t have to save her, Jaime,” Brienne turns to him now, keeping a grip on his hand. “You can’t save her. You’ll die.”

“She’s pregnant,” he says. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he wants Brienne to hate him. He waits for her hand to leave his, he waits for her to ask him to leave her bed. Her grip loosens slightly with the news but within a second she tugs his hand and is cradling it to her chest instead.

“Look at me,” she whispers. And he does. Her other hand cups the side of his face and her fingertips rest in his hair, applying gentle pressure. He feels a small release and a tear escapes his eyes before he can stop it. “You’re a good man and you don’t have to die for her.”

“The baby,” he starts but she shushes him.

“It’s not your child, Jaime,” Brienne places a single finger over his mouth when he begins to protest. “Just as Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were not yours.”

He knows she is right and so he nods but the truth sits uneasy in his stomach as he watches sleep take Brienne. She still cradles his hand to her chest, her other arm draped across him as if a means to stop him leaving.

It almost works.

***

Tyrion believed him. His mind is still reeling from this when he finds himself in a crush near the Red Keep. Brienne, he understood. He sometimes thought her judgement of him clouded but still relished in it all the same. That night he finally found an advantage to her faith in him: keeping her safe. But Tyrion? He thought of how complicit he had been in Cersei’s crimes and wonders how long he has been considered under the thumb and if there is anyone left that believes in his honour.

His heart feels barely present in his chest. It beats but does so without conviction. He barely recognises the faint thump in his ribcage when he reaches the first bell and rings it. He hopes Tyrion understands now.

His heart gains speed but as he sees the city light up in flames and the first blast of wildfire take hold, it stops altogether.

He will greet Cersei as a dead man.

***

“Don’t let me die, Jaime,” Cersei cries and he thinks it should inspire more feeling but he knows he is dead. His heart doesn’t beat anymore.

“It’s over,” he whispers as he pulls her towards him. “This is it.”

“There has to be another way out, please, for the baby,” she clutches at her stomach and his gaze follows. For the first time he notices that there is nothing where there should be a very visible something. He is glad his heart is already broken. He steps back and it’s the fatal blow.

Seconds ago, they were pressed to each other. Now they are several feet apart and he’s watching the ceiling surround and crush her. He wants to believe that he feels nothing, but he cries anyway as he feels a dull thud in his chest.

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

He’s alive. Barely, but he’s alive.

And he was merciful.

_I need to go back. I need to go back. I need to go back._

As he scrambles up the fallen rocks, the blocked exit and towards the tiny slither of light at the top all he can think of is blonde hair and blue eyes and a golden sword raised high and shining in the sunlight. It’s magnificent, _she’s magnificent_ , and as he pushes the rocks away to ashes raining from the sky he begins to breathe again.

He lies in the boat and rocks out to sea, clutching at his injured side and thinking of a life he can never have where the sea crashes into the shore, where his wife rules and his children learn to sail. He dreams of Tarth as his eyes close and tiredness takes over. Before he drifts off, he wonders if he’ll die before he leaves the Blackwater.

***

He wakes, confused, with what he assumes is a maester tugging at his clothes, Jon Snow in the corner of a small and clearly locked room, and his brother looking at him as though he cannot contain his pity.

“Hello,” Tyrion sighs. “Nice to see you back with us.”

Jaime chances a look at Jon Snow but is left ignored. Jon is too busy gazing through the floor to notice. Jaime chances a move and is shoved back to the bed by the maester who is still trying to lift his shirt.

“Let the man help you,” Tyrion insists. “You can’t leave me the only Lannister standing.”

Jaime groans but as quick as he does he feels his veins turn to ice and his skin turn ashen.

“Cersei,” he whispers. The sight of her falling flashes before his eyes. He screws them shut but his brain helpfully provides “ _Don’t let me die, Jaime_ ” on a loop, lest he forget.

“Yes,” Jaime looks at his brother and finds some relief in his attempt to look sorry.

“Did you kill her like you killed your King?” Jon Snow finally pipes up. Jaime takes a good look at his face and sees the dark circles around his eyes, the greasy and matted hair and the look of a man ready to die. Jaime knows that look. He’s seen it staring back at him from many mirrors.

Before he can answer, Tyrion clears his throat.

“Much has happened since we fished you out of the Blackwater, brother.”

He didn’t even get away. He couldn’t even die properly.

The maester is applying a salve to the wound Euron gave him as a reminder of his failings. He rapidly bandages the wound, wrapping tightly around Jaime’s middle and excuses himself with an instruction to not move too much.

“You should have left me,” Jaime mumbles. “Kingslayer, Queenslayer. It doesn’t matter if it’s true, Daenerys will kill me anyway. Dying at sea seemed more appealing than dragonfire.”

Jaime notices the flinch from the other side of the room.

“Daenerys is dead.”

And that is what finally knocks the wind out of him.

***

He sees the Stark sigil from the window of the room he now shares with Jon Snow and tastes bile in his throat. He came to Kings Landing to die. Now it seems he definitely will.

“Your sister is here,” he tells Jon, trying to sound cheerful. “Maybe she will let you out of this room.”

It’s been a month since the war ended. Since Cersei and Daenerys left neither standing and escaped the world together. After a month of sharing a cell with a man mournfully self-titling as Queenslayer, Jaime is almost jealous.

“I don’t deserve it,” Jon mumbles.

Jaime sighs. “You did the right thing, just like I did all those years ago. If Sansa wants to let you out, you should let her.”

“It doesn’t feel like the right thing,” Jon says.

It takes an hour but the knock on the door finally arrives. Tyrion enters and announces Lady Stark’s arrival but it’s the lady following her, grip firmly on the hilt of a sword he would recognise anywhere, that knocks the wind out of Jaime’s sails. He did all he could to keep her away from Kings Landing but here she is anyway, defying his last wish as only she could.

“Jon,” Lady Sansa falls to where Jon sits on the floor and clutches his hands where they rest in his lap.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” Jon whispers and pulls her into a hug. Jaime looks to Brienne and finds that she has found particular interest in the bland wall decorations. She looks just as he left her, if only a few notable differences. His fingers itch when they notice that her hair has grown a little, desperate to run through it and remember how soft it felt in Winterfell. Brienne shifts under his gaze but still refuses to look at him and he thinks the frustration might kill him, thinks he might just get up and force her to rest her beautiful eyes on him… it’s only his understanding that he doesn’t deserve it that stops him.

“Lady Sansa,” Jaime starts, noticing Brienne twitch at the sound of his voice. “What brings you to Kings Landing?”

Sansa fixes him with a look that reveals nothing as she lets go of Jon. She looks to Brienne, first, then pierces him with an ice-cold stare.

“We’re crowning the next King, Ser Jaime.”

***

“Ser Jaime,” her voice washes over him as smoothly as silk and calms whatever panic he was feeling at the scene before him. He hasn’t heard her voice in months and he’s still not sure he deserves to. But they are crowning Jon Snow today, despite his protests, and he has yet to find out what they intend to do with him.

Brienne stands beside him in the Dragonpit, no armour but Oathkeeper loyally strapped around her middle. Her hair has continued to grow and hangs loosely in the sun but still out of her face. He wonders when she decided to do that. It softens her and frames her face in a different way. Did he do that to her? His arrogance astonishes even him.

“You look good, Ser Brienne,” he says quietly and earnestly. He doesn’t miss the sharp inhale of breath and the way her stiff resolve loosens for a moment.

“King Jon would like you to attend the Small Council meeting after the coronation,” she says.

He can’t read her anymore. He stares at her as she tries to look anywhere but at him but short of acknowledging how awkward she surely feels; he doesn’t understand what he is seeing. It wasn’t that long ago that they were entwined together in her bed almost every night for a month spilling secrets they had held on throughout years of their friendship. How is it that they can barely look at one another now? Jaime wants to reach up and hold her face so her eyes look directly into his, but he thinks she might just screw hers shut. The thought of not being able to see them at all is enough to keep his hand firmly by his side.

“Is this the end for me?” he tries to ask jovially but he is scared. As fear grips at the deepest parts of himself he understands, with a degree of amusement, that his only real fear is not being able to live the life he’s been dreaming of for months. He imagines the island and his children and his wife… he acknowledges the poetic justice in the fact that he is even less likely to have that life even should he live.

“I suppose that depends on what you consider an ending, Ser Jaime,” Brienne answers cryptically and starts to move away towards the crowds gathering to see the new King. His hand jerks out before he can stop it and latches onto her forearm.

“Brienne,” he whispers, pleading. Her eyes are wide but she acquiesces and steps back to him. He doesn’t let go. “If this is-”

Deep breaths. He swallows air faster than he thought possible to fill his lungs with some courage. Brienne simply stays.

“If this is the end, I don’t want it to be like this,” he says. “Can we speak? Before the meeting?”

She considers him for a moment before reaching down to remove his hand from her arm. He feels a crack in his chest and tries to smile it away, swallow down his confessions. But then –

“I’ll be in the White Sword Tower,” she says and vanishes into the crowds.

He watches a crown adorned with wolves top Jon Snow’s head and he wonders which of them is worse off, which of them is more miserable.

***

He finds her in the room where he first armed and armoured her, where he first tried to save her from the evils of Kings Landing and whatever Cersei would have planned for her. He thinks of his sister warily but mostly with disinterest these days. He feels no love; he remembers no love. It’s a chapter he has firmly closed.

“I’m to be Commander of the Kingsguard,” Brienne says before he’s even closed the door and greeted her. “No land, no titles, no husband.”

Jaime feels like he might be sick. His heart is frozen in his chest but when she turns to look at him, he feels some of it thaw by the look in her eyes. He only sees apprehension.

“That’s a great achievement, Brienne,” he says carefully. “I’m proud of you.”

She nods and pulls the Book of Brothers from a shelf and carefully opens it to his page, like she knew exactly where to find it. He tries not to think about it. The page is still sparse, a memory of his failings more than his honourable deeds.

“It will be for me to complete your pages,” she says. He flinches when she says ‘complete’ and wonders if she will do anything to stop him dying today. “You never wrote about your return to Kings Landing.”

“No,” he says, brushing his hand over the page. “I’d already done a thousand deeds to eradicate any honour I had gained by the time I came to add to the book.”

“That’s not true,” Brienne says. “I’m going to write about how you saved me, kept your oath to Lady Catelyn-”

“The world has already judged me,” he smiles, sadly. “No amount of pretty words can restore what I have rightly lost.”

He closes the book and reaches for her hand, to hold it gently. He needs to speak, and he needs her to hear him. He feels the need pressing on his chest, trying to suffocate him. He can’t die without her knowing. He can’t let the unspoken words kill him first.

“I’m sorry,” he runs his thumb over her wrist, like he did the night he left.

“Sorry for what?” Brienne is hardened, determined not to let him off easy. The delight he feels sings in his heart. She might hate him, but she is unchanged. She’s still Brienne.

“I should not have left like that,” he says. “I didn’t know what I intended to do but I knew I had a greater purpose here.”

She nods and tries to pull her hand back, but he holds tighter.

“Cersei told me that she was pregnant,” he says and lets it sit in the air.

“I’m-” Brienne starts but she can’t finish.

“Would you still think me honourable if I had abandoned my child?” he knows he is shaking now. “I’m not sure I could have lived with myself, let alone expect you to.”

Brienne sighs and takes a seat at the table, but she doesn’t take her hand back. She just tugs at him gently as he takes a seat next to her.

“It was her last manipulation though,” he huffs out a laugh. “One last lie designed perfectly to kill me.”

“The child?” he can hear that Brienne doesn’t want to ask.

“Never existed,” he smiles. “I left the happiest days of my life to walk into a trap. Brienne, you have to know how much I regret it.”

Brienne nods and this time squeezes his hand hard. He wonders if he might lose it. He recognises with some startling clarity that he would let her take it. He would let her take any part of him that she wanted. She already has his heart and he is a dead man walking. What use is the rest of him when the most important part has been so beautifully stolen?

“You should have told me,” she finally says, actually daring to look at him. “I would have understood. I could have-”

“Helped?” he helpfully fills in.

“Yes!” she answers indignantly. “I gave you everything and I didn’t do so lightly. I defended you, we fought together, we were _together_. I told you that you didn’t have to save her, and you left anyway.”

It’s the most she’s said to him in months and he can’t help the grin that bursts from his face, inappropriate as it is. His hand is beginning to feel clammy, but she won’t let it go. Her grip is stronger than ever. He’s dying to run his hands through her hair, to brush her hair away from her eyes, to feel the softness of her skin against his palm. He wonders if it would be too much to request a dying wish fulfilled before he goes to the King.

“She would have killed you on sight,” he says quietly. “I needed you to live even if I was doomed not to.”

“We need to speak to the King,” Brienne stands suddenly, dropping his hand and gesturing to the door.

“Brienne, whatever happens-” Jaime tries to say as he stands. But he doesn’t finish his thought. Two strong arms wrap around him in an instant, squeezing the air from his lungs and causing his face to blush. Her face buries into his shoulder slightly and just as his arms find their way around her back and he turns his face to the crook of her neck –

“I’m so glad you’re alive.”

And then she’s gone, the door left open in her wake.

***

Jon makes him his Hand and Jaime thinks he would prefer death. He catches the smirk Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne share when he begins his protests and lists every single reason why he should not be the King’s Hand.

“Besides, I only have one!” he tries to joke and is pleased to see Brienne hide a smile behind her hand.

But Jon merely smiles and presents him with the brooch that he immediately has to seek help to fasten. He looks to Brienne and she's there in an instant.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer my brother?” Jaime tries one last time.

“Lord Tyrion is to return to Casterly Rock and lead in your stead,” Jon advises. “Neither of us want to be in this position, Ser Jaime. I don’t want to be King and you don’t want to be Hand of the King. Neither of us deserve to still live after our crimes but this is a punishment worse than death. We have to do this right and that will be our penance.”

Jaime nods and looks to the brooch, now firmly fixed upon his lapel. “Very well, Your Grace.”

It’s freer than barred windows and four walls, freer than Lady Catelyn’s cage and shackles, freer than Cersei and her talons hooking into every moment of his existence… he looks to Brienne and she’s smiling. He feels her pride hit him full force and he thinks that this freedom is all he needs. He’ll be Hand of the King if it means he gets to stand here next to her, next to her smile and pride and bloody honour.

***

He’s not sure what reception he can expect when he turns up at the White Sword Tower with a flask of wine and two cups, knocking at Brienne’s chambers as delicately as he can with his foot.

“Jaime,” she says quietly and steps aside to let him in.

“Have a drink with me,” he says, smiling, pouring two very full cups of wine.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks cautiously.

Jaime smiles and takes a mouthful, urging her to do the same. Which she does. He wonders how many more sips until the wine begins to stain her mouth and flush her skin and loosen her threads.

“We’re alive,” he grins. “We fought the dead and the Dragon Queen and the Mad Queen and we’re still here.”

“And all the rest,” she finally concedes with a sigh and takes a large gulp of her drink. “I hope the temperature is to your liking.”

She’s smiling and her eyes are sparkling in the firelight. The world regards her as ugly, as manly or “Brienne the Beauty”. In that moment and in all other moments, for a long time, he hasn’t been able to see that. He sees the beauty of her blue, shining eyes. Her soft mouth that presses beautiful kisses all over his body. The never-ending curves of her body hiding under the armour. Her soft hair twisting through his fingers and tangling with his own when they are pressed close enough. Her good, beautiful, pure heart ready to give so much love.

It hits him quite suddenly how much he wants her. How much he loves her. He feels it thrum through his veins to the point of trembling. His wine starts to wobble in its cup.

“Now you mention it, it is quite warm in here,” he laughs, tugging at the leather adorning his chest and taking his time to remove it. “No help this time?”

“I’m sure you are more than capable, Ser,” she rolls her eyes.

“Do you feel like we’ve been here before?” he tries to tease but it falls flat. She looks at him but without any amusement.

“A lot has happened since then,” Brienne points out carefully. “A lot has changed.”

“But a lot hasn’t,” he is very quick to point out and mentally berates his shameful eagerness.

“Why are you here?” Brienne cuts off his thoughts.

It’s a good question. What is he expecting by being here, in her chambers, with wine and an appalling sense of humour? They aren’t riding on the euphoria of winning the ultimate battle. They’re not understanding for the first time just how fragile their lives are. They’ve been through that already. So why is he here?

“I just can’t be away from you,” he tries with sincerity. “I want to drink with you and talk to you and be near you.”

She’s silent but her body is relaxing somewhat.

“If that’s ok with you?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, and it fills him with a foolish hope. He didn’t see the night moving this way, but he can’t bring himself to feel regret for how it is turning out.

She takes a sip of her wine, not breaking eye contact.

“You want a repeat of that night, after the battle,” she dares to accuse him. His knees could buckle any minute.

He doesn’t say anything. How can he?

“I’m right, so you have to drink.”

And so, he does.

She smiles to herself and offers a single, tiny nod in acknowledgement.

He catches her hand as she fiddles with the laces of her shirt, whilst trying to juggle her cup of wine, and holds her questioning gaze for a moment too long. He sees the shame creep into her eyes, the look of misunderstanding. But she couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Brienne,” he tries to speak but it comes out barely a whisper. “You have to know-”

“What?” she snaps, putting down her wine cup to the point where some spills on the side.

“I love you,” he says quietly, with a hopeless and gentle smile. “The reason I’m here, the reason I am anywhere you are is that I love you.”

“Oh,” is all she says.

There is a pause, a moment where the air stills but the fire crackles. Where Jaime can smell the spilled wine but can feel Brienne breathing in front of him – so alive. A moment where Jaime takes a breath before speaking –

But his arms are full of Brienne who is clutching at his face and bringing her lips to meet his in a clash that should be painful. Instead he’s elated. He feels like he’s been pushed into the flames behind him and reborn. He drops his full cup to the floor, not caring about the spill, and forces his hand into her hair. The satisfaction of a desire fulfilled threatens to overwhelm him but instead he returns her kiss and walks her back towards her bed.

“Off,” he whispers, breaking the kiss to tug at her shirt as she removes it. She swiftly removes his own and he thanks his wishful foresight for leaving his golden hand behind this evening.

He presses her back into her bed with hushed and soft kisses along her jaw and down her neck, and as he feels her reach down to fiddle with the laces at his waist, he just catches a whispered “I love you, Jaime” in his ear which threatens to finish him off there and then.

***

“Don’t leave this time,” Brienne whispers when they’re done, resting her head on Jaime’s chest and drawing absent-minded circles on his shoulder. His thought he knew what heartbreak was.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he speaks into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m going to stay here with you, for as long as you’ll have me. Or until you officially start as Commander of the Kingsguard.”

The thought settles in his mind. All the things he loves about Brienne start and end with her shameless dedication to loyalty, honour and what is right and just. He loves her code that so nearly matches his own before he found himself with his sword in his King’s back. Maybe this is his real punishment – to live and work with Brienne every day for the rest of his life without being able to touch her soft skin, whisper sweetness into her ear, hold her in his bed. She would honour her vow, she would become celibate and take no land or titles, no husband. And he was doomed to watch from the sidelines and long for her. It was a God’s sort of justice.

“Why should you stop when I become Commander?” Brienne lifts her head to look at him with confusion that he desperately wants to smooth from her face. So he does, tracing the lines on her forehead away and brushing his thumb over her cheek.

“I don’t expect you to break your vow for me, Brienne,” he says, with a sad smile.

To his surprise, she laughs.

“That’s very honourable of you, Ser Jaime,” she smiles, pressing a small kiss to his mouth. “But you won’t be ruining my honour.”

“I know,” he insists, his turn to frown. “I-”

“From this day, and hopefully for all other days, Kingsguard will be allowed to love and marry,” she says with a satisfied twinkle in her eyes. “And if the need for land and titles comes up, they will be released from their vow.”

Jaime laughs and squeezes her a little closer to him. “Brienne, the Kingsguard is centuries old. You can’t just change the-”

“By order of King Jon.”

“I don’t understand. You said yourself that you relinquished land, titles and husbands.”

“I was being cautious. But I refused to be Commander of the Kingsguard when Jon first suggested it. I can’t leave Tarth without an heir and my father is too old to father more children,” she explained easily. “I told him I needed to retain my claim to Tarth if my father passed.”

“So, Jon just changed the rules?” Jaime is almost beaming with how impressed he is. Brienne never let anything stop her from breaking convention, why should he expect her to stop now?

“Jon changed the rules,” Brienne smiles.

Jaime laughs. “You are magnificent.”

He looks over her appreciatively and a pleasant blush takes hold of her, flushing her chest and face until she could do nothing but kiss him to hide it. He kisses her back slowly, taking his time to note every moment, every touch, every time his tongue presses to hers. He inhales as he kisses her neck and begins his worship. Her smell, the feel of her, how she engaged him… if he thought he knew love before, he was wrong. This is love. Intoxicating, inspiring, beautiful love.

***

But there are days when he wonders if love is enough. When the memory of Cersei and all that he did is all he can see and think and breathe.

“I know I said it before, but I’ve never seen you truly so happy,” Tyrion says as Jaime glazes over. “What’s wrong?”

He thinks of empty threats to harmless children. He thinks of burying Tommen knowing exactly what drove him to his death. He thinks of Olenna Tyrell and her family. He thinks of his cousin, strangled without a second of thought while under Lady Catelyn’s arrest. He thinks of Bran sometimes, too.

He knows that Brienne has written some of his pages in the Book but he hasn’t dared to look. Sometimes he just needs to hate himself a little bit.

“She could do so much better than me,” Jaime sighs. “And she should.”

“Lady- Ser Brienne doesn’t want anyone else,” Tyrion is quick to point out. “And it’s not like she has a line of suitors ready to steal her away from you.”

“Watch yourself, Tyrion,” Jaime warns. “She should.”

“You are not what Cersei made you,” Tyrion says quietly, pouring out some wine. “Any more than I am what our father made me.”

Jaime takes a sip and wonders how many more until he forgets.

“Cersei was a monster and she would have destroyed you. She almost did,” Tyrion continues. “But she didn’t succeed because you fell in love, truly and genuinely, and it’s been the _real_ making of you.”

“But what is it costing her? Brienne doesn’t deserve to be shackled to someone who is only remembered for his many crimes,” Jaime insists. “She’s an innocent, honourable woman who should have swarms of lords queueing up to Lord Selwyn begging for her hand.”

“She should. But, for her sins, she wants you. So when will _you_ be seeing Lord Selwyn to beg for her hand?” Tyrion asks with a smirk and a knowing sip of wine. “It’s an opportunity for you both. Lord Jaime of Tarth has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jaime can’t help himself. He almost imagines it, almost imagines that he’s worthy of such a title. He was never interested in Casterly Rock and Cersei saw to it that he never had to be but Brienne, the heir to Evenfall Hall. The next Evenstar. Commander of the Kingsguard. He remembers his final thoughts when he knew he was dying, of beaches and islands and children learning to sail, of his wife – his wife with blonde hair sat on a throne of her own making that isn’t made of twisted and welded metal. He remembers seeing sapphire blue waters and feeling at peace with whatever was to come.

But she is not the Evenstar yet and she is not ready to inherit the island. And she is not bearing his children.

“It’s a fantasy,” he settles with Tyrion.

***

Peace time is a new experience. Jaime feels like he’s been at war forever and it unsettles him to suddenly find himself unnecessary. He can tell Jon is feeling the same. They sit together at meetings with very little to discuss and instead dwell on the past, on their glory days and their horrendous mistakes.

He’s surprised most of all to find that he can actually call Jon a friend, something that has been in short supply for most of his life.

“We’re doing a good job, aren’t we?” Jon asks over a cup of wine one day once they have settled a simple trade issue.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jaime sighs, leaning back in his chair and swirling his own cup with disinterest.

Ruling was a punishment, of that Jaime knows Jon was right. He’s never done anything so dull and yet, piece by piece, he is finding his honour and he knows he is bound to this role. He can’t leave it.

“Jaime, please,” Jon huffs. “Stop that.”

“What?”

Jaime is feigning innocence. He knows what Jon likes and hates and plainly doesn’t care about at this time. Maybe he’s antagonising him. Maybe he’s trying to liven up the day.

“The ‘Your Grace’ bullshit. I am no grace.”

“Well you can still call me Ser Jaime,” Jaime smiles at him wickedly over his cup and takes a large mouthful.

“Or maybe Lord of Tarth?” Jon presses with a matching smirk that almost immediately wipes Jaime’s from his face.

“Maybe not,” he stands quickly. “Will that be all for today, _Your Grace_?”

Jon frowns. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Jaime asks impatiently.

“Just how many times do you intend to take my Commander’s honour before you ask for her hand?”

It’s a low blow. Jaime doesn’t speak of such things to Jon, has never wanted to. He feels everything in his body still and he wonders if he’s going to fight or fly. It feels like a threat; it feels like he’s being judged. By Jon Snow, of all people? Jon Snow who took up with a wildling girl breaking his vow to the Watch wants to judge him for loving Brienne of Tarth unconditionally and out loud? Jaime’s hand unconsciously rests on the hilt of his sword and he berates himself for already adopting her quirks.

“I think Ser Brienne should decide if she considers her honour besmirched, don’t you?” he tries but he knows it’s a weak argument. Brienne had broken many a convention but convincing society that she was doing nothing wrong by being with him might be an ambition too far.

“She can’t leave Tarth a bastard heir,” Jon points out. Despite his name, sometimes Jaime forgets that Jon was never legitimate. There is so much Stark in him it seems impossible that he should have ever sidestepped inheriting Winterfell for the sake of societal rules. “Don’t make her have to, Jaime.”

“Thank you for your infinite wisdom as always, Your Grace,” Jaime mock bows and swiftly leaves the room, his heart hammering in his chest and one thought looping in his brain: _You’re not good enough._

***

He doesn’t intend to test Brienne’s honour again, but he can’t help himself. She lies before him, willing and consenting and loving him and he can’t stop. He pulls out, spills onto her thigh and whispers into her ear as he comes down: “You can have anyone you want. Anyone in the world.”

“Piss off,” she shoves him off with a tired laugh.

“I mean it,” Jaime says, staring at the ceiling where he lays next to her. “I don’t know that I can give you what you want.”

“And what is it that I want, Jaime?” she leans up on her elbows and looks down at him with a frown.

“Someone good,” the confession slips out before he can stop it. “You deserve someone that hasn’t done unspeakable wrongs in the name of his family, of his sister.”

Brienne takes a deep breath and sits up. Jaime is tempted to do the same, but he feels like having her look down on him is somewhat appropriate.

“What I want and what I deserve are separate things,” she says carefully but the tone is biting.

“Well,” he starts. “What do you want?”

Brienne’s breath hitches and it takes all he has not to grab her hand and reassure her. But he wants to know this is right, because it doesn’t feel right. Jon wasn’t wrong when he said he was taking her honour. He hears how the smallfolk in the city refer to her as the “ _Kingslayer’s whore_ ”. Even after everything, after the wars and battles Westeros had seen over the past ten years. He knows it won’t ever go away unless he marries her – but how can he? Instead of keeping her honour intact wouldn’t that just attach her to his own failing reputation?  

There is a gentle blush on the back of her neck, and he wishes he could see her face fully, to see it glow pink.

“I-” she starts. “You, Ser Jaime.”

“Ser Jaime?” he can’t resist teasing.

“Stop,” she commands, and he obeys.

“You want the man that pushed a child from a tower window?”

It’s brutal and it’s testing – but he has to know. Brienne has to know who and what he is.

“You’re not that man anymore,” she defends. “You apologised to Lord Stark and he accepted. You were willing to die to protect him and his home. I know you regret it, don’t try and pretend you don’t.”

“What about the man that killed his own cousin for his sister?”

“Jaime, stop,” Brienne begs.

“The man that would have killed everyone at Riverrun for his sister?”

“Jaime!” Brienne snaps. “Stop.”

Her tone is ferocious. If he didn’t know better, he would say it’s almost a roar. Goosebumps take hold of his skin and a thrill runs through him as he decides to sit up and finally face her.

“I’ve done so much worse-” he tries to start but she cuts him off with a stare, fixed upon his face, eye to eye and not faltering for a second.

“Why _didn’t_ you kill everyone at Riverrun?”

“What?”

“You said you would have, but we both know you didn’t. Even the Blackfish only died of his own pride, you had no intention to harm him,” she says with confidence. “Why?”

He tries to hold her gaze. He tries to make her see, make her understand. But he can’t do it and his eyes drop to his lap as quickly as hers met his.

“You asked me not to,” he finally admits. “You were in the castle, I couldn’t-”

“Why did you come back to Harrenhal?”

“Brienne-” he says quietly.

“Why?”

“You were in danger,” he says quietly. “Qyburn told me what they would do to you and I couldn’t leave you there.”

“And why did you give me that damn sword and armour and ask me to find Lady Sansa?” her voice is beginning to lose its resolve. He finds that he can look at her again, her eyes losing their intensity but none of their beauty.

“Because you weren’t safe,” he can see the surprise in her face. “I had an oath, yes, and I tasked you to fulfil it but Brienne, she would have killed you.”

His hand raises gently to touch her face, to cup her cheek and hold her there where he can see her clearly, so clearly.

“I couldn’t let Cersei hurt you,” his voice drops to a careful whisper.

“She was a monster,” Brienne says quietly after a short pause, as if it has been a secret she's dared not to spill until now. He's never heard her speak so unkindly of his sister but he finds that it's welcome.

Jaime pulls her towards him and buries his face into her shoulder, inhales from the crook of her neck and rests his forehead against her soft skin and wonders what on earth he’s done to be here, right now, in this moment with this person. Brienne is right, he thinks. There is a separation between what he deserves and what he wants. He knows he wants Brienne – all of her. He wants her to be the Evenstar and he wants to father her children and wants to support her rule on Tarth, as Warden of the Stormlands. He wants to love her and be with her and grab onto every quiet moment. He wants to touch her and feel her and spend the rest of his life in her company.

He wants to marry her, he acknowledges with a slight catch in his breath and a stab in his chest.

But does he deserve her?

Does it even matter if she wants him?

“So,” she breaks the silence whilst running her hand up and down his naked back, holding him to her. “What does that say about what I deserve?”

“I don’t understand,” Jaime mumbles into her skin.

“Don’t I deserve a man that would make great sacrifices for me,” she runs her hand down his right arm and clutches where his wrist should have been. “A man that is honest with me and tries to make himself better because of me?”

The truth of it hits him like he’s colliding with a wall and for a minute he forgets to breathe.

Because that really is how she sees him.

Jaime pulls back from their embrace and presses a soft kiss to her mouth.

“My father always wanted me to marry someone from a noble house, to have children and continue the Lannister name. He was desperate for it. Joining the Kingsguard was the worst thing I could have done.”

“But what do _you_ want?”

He can feel Brienne’s hand shaking where it rests on his arm. He can see the pink rise in her cheeks a little, barely noticeable but still there. He can see her eyes, shining so blue and perfect, glistening quite suddenly.

“I just want you,” he says, simply, honestly. “I want you, as my wife, and a future on Tarth. It’s all I can think about. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since Winterfell.”

Brienne’s face breaks into a gentle smile and her eyes continue to glisten. He can’t help but match her expression and pull her into another kiss, a little less soft this time. He kisses her until he ridiculously needs to breathe a little clearer, needs to see her face again to make sure this is okay.

It might not be what he deserves but it’s what she wants. It’s what he wants.

For the first time he feels like they are on the same page and it feels like it’s where they were always meant to be.

“You’d better send a raven to my father,” she says, her voice a little ruined.

“Indeed,” he grins, a little wicked as he slides his hand under the sheets to run his hand up her thigh, teasing. “Later, though.”

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

He hasn’t paid attention to his heart in a long time. He’s felt dead longer than he’s felt alive but in this moment he’s more alive than he’s ever been. For the first time, he can see a future that he wants to hold onto, that he wants to make a reality. A future that makes him want to work on his regrets from the past.

And there it is.

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

Still beating.

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

He’s alive.


End file.
